Rand started to say something more, then let John Neto’s voice talk over the savage images.

“My people have been killing one another for a long time, yes, but Bertone and his ilk made it possible to murder with ruthless modern efficiency. The losses were horrifying. We were a primitive people delivered into the hands of modern warfare, warfare driven by gunrunning opportunists like Andre Bertone.”

Kayla hit the pause button. “I thought diamonds were the bloody item of barter.”

“Bertone took whatever was offered-exotic hardwoods, illegal ivory, minerals. His favorite was bargeloads of oil siphoned from government pipelines by rebel thieves.” Rand smiled thinly. “He is one smart son of a bitch. When other arms runners demanded cash, he pioneered the barter economy. Really widened the killing field.”

Before yesterday, Kayla wouldn’t have believed it. Arms dealing in the upper crust of Phoenix? No way. That sort of thing was reserved for third-world outlaws.

She hit a button on the controller and continued her unhappy education.

“Bertone has a genius for turning a profit on a transaction with one group of combatants, then reinvesting that profit in more arms, which are then sold to the first customer’s enemies.”

The picture on the screen changed. No longer a voice-over, the camera pulled back to reveal Brent Thomas and John Neto.

“Yet today,” Thomas said, “Andre Bertone has UN diplomatic credentials and is a respected international oil dealer.”

“Yes. Enough money buys respectability. As we speak, Bertone is an intermediary for shiploads of Eastern European weapons that will be paid for with long-term oil concessions the Camgerian rebels will grant to oil companies owned by Brazil and France. Even your own government deals with Bertone for oil.” Neto smiled thinly. “Like gold or diamonds or dollars, oil can be laundered to hide its source. Andre Bertone is brilliant at just that. Oil-hungry governments, or governments wishing to arm the enemy of their enemy, are willing to overlook Camgerian deaths. We are a pawn in the larger global game.

“And we are being sacrificed.”

More images of butchery, starvation, disease; vultures thick on the ground.

Kayla didn’t want to believe it, didn’t want to think she lived in a world where war was a commodity like any other.

And worse, that she’d handled blood money for the bloodiest butcher of all.

Rand grabbed the controller just before it dropped to the floor. He paused the DVD. “You okay?”

“No,” she said. “I feel sick. Dirty.”

“Bertone will do that to anyone with any decency in them.”

She thought of the glitz and glamour of the Fast Draw, canapés paid for in children’s blood, politicians paid for the same way, everyone lining up like cattle to be serviced by the merchant of death. It had happened only hours ago, hours that felt like days, months.

Another life she had lived in another time.

And now she had hit the bottom of the rabbit hole hard enough to break her soul.

Rand saw the tears streaming down Kayla’s face and wanted to swear. Only the decent felt another’s pain. Only the decent could be corrupted. Only the decent could be made to feel dirty.

He didn’t think about smart or stupid, should or shouldn’t. He just gathered her into his arms, tucked her face against his shoulder, and held her. The hot silence of her tears reached him as nothing had since Reed’s death.

“It’s not your fault,” he said, stroking her hair, kissing her eyelids gently, tasting her tears. “None of this is your fault.”

“I helped him.” Her voice was as bleak as her tears.

“You didn’t know.”

“I do now.”

“I’m sorry,” Rand said.

“It’s not your fault.”

“Isn’t it?” he asked against her hair. “I brought you to St. Kilda.”

“It’s not St. Kilda’s fault. They’re just the messenger.”

“Yeah, well, we all know what happens to messengers.”

She smiled sadly at him, sighed, and took the controller back. But when she moved to separate from him, he held her close.

“I’m okay now,” she said.

“I’m not.”

She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry some more. So she leaned against him and started the DVD again.

“How can you stop it?” Thomas asked seriously. “You’re a very small nation whose supposed allies are very close to Andre Bertone.”

“Camgeria and some of the other small African nations victimized by Bertone have come together to establish the West African Regional Tribunal.”

“How will that help?”

“The tribunal is an investigatory body that is accumulating evidence against Bertone and his ilk. We will prove that the peoples of West Africa have been victimized by some of the most unscrupulous men on the face of the earth. Then world opinion will force that money to be returned to the people from whose blood and bone it was squeezed.”

“That sounds like a huge job.”

“It is. Interviews like this are just the beginning. We need help. We need friends. We need people who haven’t been purchased by Andre Bertone.”

The DVD ended with the stylized logo of the channel.

Kayla let out a long sigh, relieved that no more images of suffering would be burned into her conscience. “How did I miss this show? I’m a fan of The World in One Hour.”

“This segment is still in production,” Rand said, tossing the controller aside. “It won’t air at all unless we get more evidence against Andre Bertone.”

“More? What I saw was devastating. Bwana-suited gunrunner becomes Phoenix socialite and benefactor to state, national, and international politicians.”

“You and the guy who took that picture are the only ones on earth who can link Bertone to the bwana suit.”

“You’re kidding.”

Rand looked at her.

“You’re not,” she said quickly. “I knew that. I just didn’t want to know it.”

She swiped the back of her hand against her eyelashes, taking the last of her tears, wondering if she’d really felt Rand’s lips moving so gently over her skin.

“Pictures are powerful, but they can be Photoshopped,” he said. “Anybody who saw President Bush supposedly giving the world the Roman salute knows all about digitizing photos.”

She started to object, then sighed. “And the first thing Bertone’s lawyers would scream is Photoshop.”

“Yeah.”

“So even if The World in One Hour airs that show, Bertone will still have deniability.” Kayla’s mouth turned down. “Like my bank, shifting the responsibility somewhere else.”

“That’s where you could help.”

“How? After what Bertone did to me, I’m already compromised. And my boss. Let’s not forget the golden bastard.”

“I’d rather bury him,” Rand said under his breath.

“What?”

“Your reputation will survive if The World in One Hour beats Bertone’s lawyers to the press.”

“Big if.”

“Not as big as it was before you signed on with St. Kilda.”

“How so?”

“Easy. Under the charter of the West African Regional Tribunal, Neto can seize any money, anywhere, that’s connected to illegal activities. But first he has to know exactly where said dirty money is.”

She got it. “Cue Bertone’s private banker.”

“Bingo.”